Curse

My grandmother convinced me that my family has a curse.

A curse disguised beneath faithless love and hope of forever,

A curse bearing gifts of happiness, dedication, and comfort,

A curse waiting, counting down the seconds--

to take it all away.

To be born into this curse means that I was born into the lie of “til death do us part”.

I was born into the cycle of broken hearts, into the future of my kids with broken hearts.

To be born into this curse means that I will not be raised the same

With mother wondering why we were born,

With a mother tending to a man with a fake oath,

With a parent unknown.

It is cruel to leave a child in the dark

As only that child can learn to do the same to their own.

“Some people have it worse,” they hear.

“You're overreacting,” they hear.

But not understood is the perspective of a child

Lost, confused, belonging nowhere, and itching for three words

The cherished get to hear.

Who can learn from the generations past

While surrounded by the unceasing neglect of another's sorrow?

While society continues to categorize one’s pain from better to worse?

While we are taught by what we see

And yet told to not do as they do.

Not recurring my childhood will be the kids I live to raise

Aiming not to remodel the mother or parent unworthy of praise.

The malediction only to condone neglect,

I will not leave behind and pass to the next of me.

So that maybe their future will be better than mine.

And they won’t need to grow up

Before they’re grown.

To have the ability to describe their lives happy,

Is my verse.

My own, changing history

And breaking the curse.

-Shayla Bautista